


the strength so strong mere force is feebleness

by MistressofHappyEndings



Series: more last than star [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Trust, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings
Summary: A quiet, winter night in Kaer Mohren and two lovers in the firelight.
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: more last than star [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967638
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	the strength so strong mere force is feebleness

Over the crackle of the fire in the library’s fireplace, Coën catches the faint, steady drub of a familiar heartbeat. A moment later, the scent of cedar, midnight, and oncoming storm fills his nose, a scent he’s grown to cherish above all others in the past few years. Lambert. He looks up from the book in his lap to see his Wolf standing in the doorway of the cavernous room, leaning against the jamb, and watching him with slumberous gold eyes. The darkness outside the windows suddenly penetrates his awareness, and Coën guiltily realizes how late it must be. 

Just this morning, Jaskier had asked to meet in him the library after breakfast. Once there, the bard had handed him a stack of texts concerning the School of the Griffin that he’d found while organizing the books for Vesemir. Coën had looked them over and swiftly realized that he hadn’t rescued these and brought them to Kaer Mohren himself after the landslide. He’d given the startled younger man a heartfelt hug then settled himself on the nearest couch to read through the books in relative peace. 

He’s been vaguely aware of people coming and going all day, but he’s been too consumed with the words on the pages to acknowledge that a fire has been lit to ward off the winter chill in the air and that food and drink has been placed on the table beside him should he want them. Coën realizes now that it hasn’t been _people_ who’s been keeping him comfortable, but one person, his _schatje_ , his treasure. And even now, Lambert stands before him with a blanket and a pillow held to his chest, no doubt intending to leave them for Coën and then retreat quietly like he has all day. 

Coën sets the book he’s been reading on the table piled high with others beside him as he waits for Lambert to move. His Wolf is dressed for sleep, wearing only a pair of loose, worn trousers and a shirt that belonged to Coën. The shirt isn’t something Coën wears often. It had been a gift from a grateful tailor, loose, comfortable, with crisscrossing strings down the front, but it’s too delicate and too decorative for everyday use. Coën had dug it out of the back of his wardrobe yesterday only because he had desperately needed to catch up on his laundry. It had been a little too cold to be wandering around the keep shirtless while he waited for one of his plainer shirts to dry, no matter how Lambert had tried to persuade him otherwise. 

He hasn’t washed it yet, wanting to ask Jaskier’s opinion on how to properly clean it without damaging it, so it probably smells like him. A fresh surge of guilt strikes him as he realizes that likely is the reason Lambert has slipped it on. If he couldn’t have Coën himself in their bed, at least he could be wrapped in his scent. 

As he watches the other man, Lambert frowns at the unexpected attention and pushes himself off the jamb. He pads towards the couch on bare, silent feet. “Sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse from interrupted sleep. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Woke up an’ you weren’t in bed, figured you were still down here. ‘s cold, so I thought you might want these.” 

He holds up the blanket and pillow in offering. Coën takes them, setting the pillow over his crossed legs and tossing the blanket along the back of the couch. Lambert nods absently and turns to walk away. Coën catches his wrist before he got too far and gently tugs his Wolf down beside him. Not expecting the move, Lambert yelps and flails a bit and ends up sprawled along the length of the couch with his head in Coën’s lap. Coën threads the fingers of one hand in his dark hair, the other coming to rest over Lambert’s chest, right above the steady beat of his heart. 

“You aren’t disturbing me, _schatje_ ,” Coën says quietly once the other man had settled. “I’m the one who should be apologizing for making you get out of a warm bed to track me down.” 

“S’all right, I get it. They were your brothers. If that –” Lambert swallows hard and closes his eyes, a pained line furrowing between his brows. “ – if a few books were all I had left of Eskel and Geralt and Vesemir, I’d have spent all day in a library, too. Probably never get me to leave.” 

While he appreciates his lover’s understanding, Coën is shaking his head before Lambert even finishes his first sentence. “No, Lambert. This,” he untangles his fingers from Lambert’s hair long enough to tap against stack of books he’s been obsessing over, eyes going distant for a moment, “this is the past. I miss them, I will always miss them, and I would honor my brothers by keeping them alive in my thoughts and memories. They deserve that much from me.” 

He takes a deep breath and refocuses on the man under his hands. He brushes the tips of his fingers over where the prominent scar rises above Lambert’s brow in tiny, soothing sweeps. “But you, beloved, you are my present and my future. You are with me _now_ , alive and whole and safe. You are not a memory, you are my reality, and nothing, _nothing_ , is more important to me than that. I do not ever want to make you think this is not true. Please forgive me if I have today.” 

Lambert stares up at him with a look he couldn’t decipher in the flickering firelight. Then, a hesitant hand settles atop the one on the prone Witcher’s chest. Coën turns his hand over and squeezes gently, waiting with quiet resolve for Lambert’s absolution or his condemnation. 

“I missed _you_.” 

Coën pauses at the quiet, plaintive words. He had traveled up the Killer to Kaer Mohren with Lambert and has spent every night since in his bed, but he knows what his Wolf means. Every Witcher in the keep, and Jaskier as well, have been working hard to get ready for the winter ahead, and none of them have had much time to do anything but sleep, eat, work, and then wake up the next morning to repeat it all over again for the past few weeks. Today had been their first reprieve, and instead of spending it by lavishing well-deserved attention on his mate, he’s hidden himself away in the library with a bunch of dusty, old books. 

He has much to make up for. 

Coën pushes his hand further into the dark hair, gently tilting his head up, and he leans the rest of the way down until his lips hovers just above Lambert’s mouth. The stir of his breath teases at the sensitive skin as he replies, “I’m here now, _schatje_. How can I make it up to you?” 

Lambert shudders under his touch, fingers tightening on his hand and instinctively leaning up into the contact, catching at Coën’s mouth for a brief, passionate kiss before falling back onto the couch. The answer, when it comes, is thick with want. 

“ _Touch me_.” 

Neither the request nor the responsiveness to such a simple gesture surprises Coën. Lambert loves to be touched. It doesn’t have to be sexual, and there are many times when it isn’t. He just craves the feel of someone next to him, over him, under him, any part of another person that wants to be in contact with any part of him. He’d been shy to show this need in their early years together, fearing that he was too needy and would drive Coën away. Aiden had been the only one he had trusted to truly sate this need of his, he couldn’t be that lucky twice … could he? 

Fortunately for the younger Wolf, he was that lucky, and Coën has showed him over and over again how happy he is to touch him anywhere and anyhow he likes, whenever he needs it, for as long as he needs it. 

As such, Coën has learned to read Lambert’s body language for what he wants in a specific moment. The right words do not always come easy for the Wolf, but his body is always honest in its desires. Tonight is not a night for simple caresses and cuddles. Tonight, Lambert’s body tells him that a more thorough loving is required, and Coën intends to deliver. 

He smooths a thumb under Lambert’s eye and promises, “I will.” 

He starts simple. Curving his fingers into Lambert’s beard, he scratches light circles through the bristles, brushing them this way and that in a rhythmic way that has a low rumble beginning deep in Lambert’s chest. He then cups the jaw under the beard and lowers his mouth to the other’s lips. Lambert opens to him the way he always has, with exquisite trust. The kiss starts sweet and gentle, their mouths opening to welcome one another, tongues exploring, unhurried yet confident. 

The next series of kisses carry more heat as the Griffin presses deeper, sucking and nipping and plundering until Lambert is groaning into his mouth, his hands coming up to curve around Coën’s neck as he gives back as best he can. They continue on like that for long, wonderful moments before Coën slows them down again, tongue gliding languidly over tongue, wanting to savor his Wolf. They have all night; there is no need to rush things along. 

He gets a tiny whimper of want for his efforts, and he smiles down at the other man as he gently unwinds the hands around his neck and places them along Lambert’s sides. Coën dips his head to catch the red, swollen lips in another intense though brief kiss, then he sets his fingers wandering. He touches Lambert's face tenderly, as though seeing with his fingers the beautiful bones of his face, the strong nose, the warm lips. He gazes into the golden eyes, so often guarded, so hidden, but now warm and trusting. He lets his fingers drift down Lambert’s neck to settle in the hollow of his throat where he can feel Lambert’s breath and pulse. 

For a few moments, Coën does nothing but rests his palm over the slow, steady thump of the heart that owns his, his fingers falling naturally over the bump of Lambert’s Adam’s apple. With some reluctance, he moves further down, strokes, caresses, until he reaches the hem of the borrowed shirt. He pulls the laces through the bottom three sets of eyelets one slow tug at a time until the hard planes of Lambert’s stomach are revealed. He temporarily abandons the rest of the laces and takes a few sweet moments to drag his knuckles over the straight ridges of the well-defined muscles and the jagged ones of the numerous scars collected over the years. Lambert sucks in a ragged breath under his ministrations, stomach clenching at the pleasurable sensations, and Coën flattens his hand to enjoy the quivering under his palm. 

Coën eventually moves back to the rest of the laces of the shirt, plucking them all free, and avidly watches the folds of the shirt fall away in uneven slip-slides to finally reveal the rest of his Wolf’s lithe torso. With so much new territory to explore, he moves the pads of his fingers in random patterns at first, then lingers over places he knows are sensitive. Lambert stays uncharacteristically quiet through this, only his quickened breathing giving him away. But when Coën circles a solitary fingertip around the pebbled skin surrounding one nipple, he can’t bite back the hiss and shiver than runs through him at the sensation. 

Coën smiles slyly as he repeats the motion, the sensitive flesh peaking to a hard point. He flicked the tip of a calloused finger against the nipple and appreciates the way Lambert twitches. 

“I still say you should get these pierced. Hmm …” 

He raises a hand to his own chest a moment, brushing his fingertips lightly over the bar that impales the nipple hidden beneath his shirt. He hisses softly as the sensation shoots straight to his cock, and he is suddenly grateful that the pillow hides his reaction. Lambert might be highly responsive to touch, but his responses are nothing compared to the nearly uncontrollable pleasure he himself experiences when his nipples are played with, a fact that his wicked lover has taken advantage of many times in the past, to the mutual enjoyment of them both. But tonight is for Lambert, he tells himself sternly, and drops his hand back to his lover’s warm skin. He goes back to petting him, switching between the pads of his fingers and his nails, making the other man moan all over again. 

“… not bars for you, though,” he continues in mock contemplative tones. “A pair of silver rings, I think. As sensitive as you are now, just imagine how it would feel if I had something to tug and play with like you do to me. Would you like that, _schatje_?” 

“Uhh, Coën,” Lambert growls breathlessly, shooting his infuriating lover a helpless glare, “quit fuckin’ around, and just _touch_ me!” 

Coën chuckles at his impatience. “Ssssh, my own, I am, I am.” 

He moves his hand down, ruffling his fingertips through the line of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of Lambert’s trousers, Lambert’s restlessness and murmurs growing the closer he got to the thickening bulge straining against the cloth. Without any warning, Coën moves his hand over that bulge and bears down with just the right amount of pressure. 

Lambert’s upper body tries to jerk up into the sudden sensation, a wild, choked sound catching in the back of his throat. One hand flies down to catch at Coën’s wrist, the other scrabbling against the knee cradling his head. But Coën’s grip in his hair tightens, and he uses the frantic motion to pull his beloved up into a searing kiss, swallowing his impassioned groan. He keeps the hand on Lambert’s lower body firm and tight against the fingers clawing at his wrist. Pinned at mouth and cock, Lambert can do nothing but accept Coën’s ministrations, deep bass whimpers drunk down by his lover’s clever, consuming mouth. 

Only once Lambert settles, trembling, back down into his hold does Coën release his mouth and use the grip in his hair to tilt his head until it arches slightly over the curve of his leg. He trails his mouth down the salty column of Lambert’s neck, dragging the inside of his upper lip on the sweaty skin, wetting the path with his tongue every few inches. The younger man shivers, and Coën hums his approval. 

In between little nipping kisses down the length of one tendon, Coën murmurs against the damp skin, “I want to make you feel good, my own, so good, I promise. Will you let me? Will you trust me with your pleasure?” 

There is no hesitation in Lambert’s response. “Yes, Coën, yes, _please_!” 

Coën nuzzles against his neck and whispers, “So sweet for me, beloved, thank you. Move your hands for me now, yes, just like that, between me and the couch, yes, hold on tight to me. Now your other hand, there, around my, yes, my leg, perfect. Do you think you can keep them there until I tell you otherwise?” 

One hand bunching the fabric of Coën’s shirt at the shoulder, the other clutching around his knee where he’s crossed his leg, Lambert’s arms are now spread wide, leaving him open to the other man’s whims. He should hate this position, should hate how vulnerable it makes him, and in any other situation, with any other person, he would. But this is _Coën_ , the one who had sought him out when he was at his lowest and had found something in the broken shards of his ruined life still worthy of love. For this man, he will do anything he is asked. 

“Yes, _kochany_ , I won’t move them until you say I can.” 

Coën rewards the hoarse promise by sucking a red bruise over the exposed Adam’s apple, laving a soothing tongue over the mark as he sent his hand down through the dark hair on the bared chest and stomach to finally pick apart the laces that held Lambert’s breeches shut. His lips tingle with the vibration of Lambert’s relieved groan once his cock is finally freed to the air. 

With one last wet kiss to the darkening bite, Coën leans back into the cushions and lets his eyes rove over the delicious display before him. Lambert’s eyes are closed once more, his head thrust back against the hand in his hair. The shirt folds spilled open over his sides, the breeches rucked low over hips, conceals nothing from his lover’s hungry gaze – throat, heart, belly, groin, all the most vulnerable parts of him trustingly bared. The fire in the hearth and a light sheen of sweat gilds the exposed body in reds and golds. Held open and still by nothing but his desire to please his lover, Lambert is a beautiful, erotic sight for Coën and Coën alone, and no power on the Continent can stop the Griffin from reaching out to grasp what is so generously being offered. 

Coën bends to capture Lambert’s mouth again, and he kisses him with a deep, slow thoroughness that brings a chorus of whimpers and moans and half-words from the man beneath him. Pulling back, Coën makes a show of licking his hand, getting it thoroughly wet, then he circles his fingers around the hard column of flesh in a loose grip, just a slow, coaxing slide that draws a little more blood into the already ruddy tip. He keeps his grip loose at first, enough to be felt, but not enough to overload the sensitive nerve endings just yet. Lambert is leaking copiously by now, and Coën gathers up the moisture to make his next strokes smoother. He drags another touch up and down Lambert’s length, following the vein on the underside with his thumb on the next upstroke, but he steers clear of the bundle of nerves just below the head. 

Lambert huffs out ragged breaths, and his grip winds tight in the cloth at his lover’s shoulder and knee. Abortive shifts of his hips follow the slow, steady caresses of Coën’s hand, but he remains otherwise still as promised. Coën rewards his restraint with a few firm strokes that has Lambert whining softly. He goes further down on the last downstroke to trace the crease of Lambert’s balls, running under the curve of first one then the other, before cupping them both in his palm and giving them a gentle squeeze. The Wolf’s soft whines become choked. 

Slowly, Coën twists his grip, his callused fingertips riding the slick crease just below the head of Lambert's cock. Coën tightens his hold around the shaft into a warm, wet squeeze that pushes the air from Lambert's lungs with a hitching sigh. Coën barely lets him pause for breath before he rubs a spit-slick thumb over the tip of his cock with a slow deliberateness. The touch sends a spike of heat through Lambert, and his hips twitch at the unexpectedly sharp sensation. A gasp escapes him, half-caught between two breaths, his fingers digging deep into Coën’s skin. 

Coën’s thumb finds a sensitive spot and rubs in short little strokes for several long moments. Lambert hisses in a breath through his teeth and shudders when Coën switches to a wicked little twist on each upstroke. He helplessly rocks with the long, aching pulls of Coën's slick hand as best as he could, mouth slack and receptive to Coën’s slick tongue and insistent lips as his lover ducks down to kiss him over and over. Lambert gasps into the kisses, and Coën deepens them, running his tongue along Lambert’s bottom lip and biting down ever so gently before pulling back. 

"Coën –" Lambert chokes out, a warning or a command he doesn’t know or care, as long as the other man did _something_. 

He groans low in his throat when Coën interrupts the steady rhythm with an unexpected squeeze around the base of his erection. Coën draws his hand up again, engulfing the oversensitive tip in a prolonged rough slide through the scarred center of his palm. Lambert’s head thumps back into the pillow in Coën’s lap and stares blindly up at the cracks in the ceiling, lost in the pleasure Coën has promised him and trusting in his lover. 

Coën repeats this a few times, the fingers of his other hand combing lazily through Lambert’s hair, then he leans down until his lips are close to the prone man’s ear. Resuming the slow strokes over Lambert’s hot, slick flesh, he begins to whisper bits of praise and adoration against the shell of his ear. He tells Lambert how much he loves the noises he makes while consumed with the pleasure he’s giving him, how his uninhibited responses please him and inspire him, how very much he loves having him under his hands. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, Lambert,” he murmurs lovingly, tongue darting out to give his ear a little lick, “so perfect just for me. I want you to let go, _schatje_ , give in to the pleasure. I have you. I won’t let you fall. Let go. I love you, my own.” 

It’s those last words that tip Lambert over the edge into bliss. His breathing changes from low and deep to a strained, shallow panting as the muscles in his body begin to contract with the exquisite tension rolling through him. A moment later, a hoarse shout escapes his throat, and he’s coming, the sticky mess of it spilling over Coën’s hand. Lambert shudders, bliss crossing his features beautifully, his face sweet and slack with pleasure. 

He keeps stroking the other man, wringing every last bit of pleasure from him, only slowing and eventually stopping, when Lambert’s gasps start to sound more pained than pleased. He leaves his fingers loosely curved around his cock, keeping it warm and sheltered against the winter air. Scratching lightly at Lambert’s scalp for long quiet moments, he waits while his beloved comes back down from the heights he’d just sent him to, enjoying the feel of the dark hair sifting through his fingers. 

Lambert eventually stirs. Eyes still closed, he tilts his head into the caresses and makes little rumbling noises. That his Wolf is so relaxed against him, so open and vulnerable, makes Coën’s heart clench tight with the aching need to see him like this always with no fear, no pain, no anger. Just pure contentment. He feels a powerful need to have Lambert closer, to protect him always, and he shifts and tugs at the younger man’s pleasure-pliant body until Lambert is curled up in his lap, head lolling against his shoulder. He wraps both arms around him and just breathes in the heady scent of his lover, well-loved. 

He doesn’t know or care how long they sit there when he feels a gentle kiss against his shoulder. He looks down to see Lambert peering up at him with sleepy eyes and a small smile on his face. Coën is helpless to do anything but cradle his beloved’s face between his hands and press tiny kisses over and over against that smile. Lambert laughs a little at his enthusiasm and tries to keep up with him. But he is too pleasure-drunk for any real kind of coordination, and he finally gives up, leans back into the strong arms holding him, and just lets Coën do as he pleases. 

A little shiver snakes through the younger Witcher that has nothing to do with Coën’s caresses and everything to do with the plummeting temperature in the room. Coën notices, and he reluctantly pulls away from his lover’s welcoming mouth to reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. He tucks it loosely around Lambert in such away to avoid most of the mess on his chest and stomach and presses his nose against the younger Witcher’s temple. 

“I think it’s time we got to bed, _schatje_ , don’t you?” 

“Hmmm,” Lambert agrees muzzily, “but it’s such a long way to get there.” 

“Do you really want Vesemir to find us like this in his precious library? Or, Melitele forbid, give Jaskier any more ammunition against us?” 

“Ergh, no …” Lambert shakes his head and attempts to straighten into a more upright position. He fails and slumps back against Coën. “I jus’ really don’t want to move right now.” 

“Don’t worry, beloved, you won’t have to.” With those words, Coën slips his arms under Lambert’s shoulder and knees, and with only a small grunt of effort, stands with the other man safe in his arms. 

A younger Lambert would have growled and thrashed until Coën set him back on his feet. A more awake Lambert might have a few complaints about being carried like a maiden. This Lambert, though, just turns his face into the warm junction of Coën’s neck and shoulder and lets himself enjoy the gentle strength holding him up. 

It doesn’t take Coën long to get them back up to their room, blessedly without running into any of the other occupants of the keep. He kicks the door shut behind them and sets his warm burden gently down onto the mattress. Lambert snuggles down into the blankets and watches with half-lidded eyes as Coën strips down efficiently then frowns as, instead of climbing into bed, Coën moves across the room to the wash basin. A quick flash of Ignii, then Coën is coming back to him, steam rising lazily from the basin as he sets it down on the nightstand. 

Tugging at the edges of the blanket Lambert has yet to untangle himself from, Coën murmurs, “Let me clean you up, _schatje_ , then we can both get some sleep.” 

Lambert fumbles with the blanket and only manages not to strangle himself with it due to Coën’s steady hands. The older man is quick but thorough in his washing, not letting the cold air reach Lambert’s damp skin any more than necessary. He helps Lambert out of his trousers but when he tries to remove the ornate shirt that’s half falling off Lambert by now, the Wolf shakes his head and holds onto it with both hands. 

“Wanna keep it,” he protests with sleepy shyness. “Feels nice, and it smells like both of us.” 

Coën smiles. He rarely sees this version of Lambert, adorable and sweet, and he cherishes every instance he gets. He can deny him nothing when he’s like this. “As you wish, beloved.” 

He snuffs out the candle on the nightstand and climbs under the blankets beside Lambert. Lambert shuffles closer until the two of them are happily wrapped in each other’s embrace, his head tucked under Coën’s chin, his body growing heavy with sleep. Coën is half-way to dreaming himself when he hears Lambert whisper to him. 

“Coën?” 

He tilts his head down to press a kiss against the dark hair. “Yes, beloved?” 

“Will you tell me about them? Your brothers, I mean?” Lambert’s voice is quiet but sincere, even so close to sleep. “I want to remember them with you, for you … if that’s all right …” 

Coën pulls him impossibly closer and tries to keep his voice steady as he answers, “It’s more than all right, Lambert. That’s – I don’t – thank you.” 

He feels a tiny kiss against the hollow of his throat. “Love you, _kochany_.” 

“I love you, too, _schatje_.”

**Author's Note:**

> kochany = dear or beloved in Polish  
> schajte = darling or sweetheart in Dutch
> 
> Just wanted to give the boys their own little pet names for each other. Since the author of The Witcher is Polish, I made Lambert "Polish" as well. Coën is a Dutch name, so ...
> 
> Update 10/13/20: Thanks again to WinchesterofMidgard for pointing out my mishap in Polish. All is fixed now!


End file.
